This was written November 11, 2012.
And I couldn’t fix it.
My sister passed away this morning on her own terms.
At home around 10:10 a.m. just as church began in Ottawa and Oshawa.
On Remembrance Day.
I got the call in Ottawa while at church to say goodbye because it was time, the wonderful caregiver said.
And so I did.
Saying that we loved her, her parents were proud of her and that her mother and grandmother were waiting to embrace her in their arms.
And I said it loud, and clear, and long-distance.
I hope she heard me.
Then, I sat in the middle of our Orthodox service in Ottawa and cried.
Watching my 3rd child’s godfather preside over the service.
Later, my 2nd and 4th children and another Godfather and his wife stood and sang a prayer for my sister.
The first prayer for the dead.
At home, I called the Oshawa priest who last saw her on Wednesday.
Who anointed her, and sang with her and spoke about life and death and the resurrection in our own Ukrainian language.
And told that her family and friends loved her.
When I called him today, and he heard my voice, he told me he knew.
In the midst of the start of a wonderfully peaceful and musical Sunday service, the oil went out.
It never happened before in his career.
And he thought of my sister.
Hoping he wouldn’t get the call.
But he did.
Ottawa, Toronto and Oshawa.
A trifecta of Orthodox links.
And then there is Sudbury.
Our home town.
Where it began.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
We are part of the land and the land is part of us.